


Domestic Breakfast Bliss

by prettysailorsoldier



Series: Johnlock Drabbles [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Living Together, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23831446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettysailorsoldier/pseuds/prettysailorsoldier
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Johnlock Drabbles [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717159
Comments: 8
Kudos: 144





	Domestic Breakfast Bliss

“Is that my shirt?”

Sherlock jumped, spinning on the kitchen linoleum, the spatula in his hand splattering pepper-flecked olive oil on a cupboard door.

John stood in the doorway, hip leaning against the frame, his arms crossed and eyebrow quirked.

Sherlock’s cheeks burned. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “You have another class at 10.”

John smirked, pushing off the doorjamb and ambling toward him. “Cancelled,” he replied, nodding down at Sherlock’s mobile on the table. “I text you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, lowering the spatula to the plate beside the stove. “I didn’t see it.”

“Clearly,” John teased, chuckling when Sherlock glared. “Do you always cook in my laundry?”

“It’s clean,” Sherlock mumbled, plucking at the oversized white t-shirt, a souvenir from the LGBT Society charity car wash two summers ago, ‘Scrub-a-Dub Studs’ printed in bold rainbow letters down the front.

Irene had been very proud.

“Fine.” John stepped in front of him, tugging at the half-unravelled hem. “Do you always cook in my  _ clean _ clothes?”

“No,” Sherlock muttered, turning around to escape the glinting blue gaze. “I thought it was mine.”

John hummed quizzically, peering over Sherlock’s shoulder as he tested the yolks of the crackling eggs. “You thought an old,  _ rainbow _ crewneck in my drawer was yours?” he mused, and Sherlock bit down hard on his lip, battling back a smile.

“I hadn’t had my coffee.”

“Ah,” John said, right hand settling on Sherlock’s hip through his plaid pajama trousers, Sherlock’s glance instinctively drawn down, his eyes lifting again to find the blue flame under his frying pan extinguished.

He frowned, reaching for the dial to find John’s hand already there, pulling away to settle on the opposite side of Sherlock’s waist.

“I think it can wait,” John breathed into his neck, chapped lips just grazing the skin, and Sherlock closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the spatula and mostly suppressing a shiver.

“It’ll get cold,” he contested, voice creaking on the last syllable as John glanced a kiss across a vertebra.

“You can reheat it.” He slipped a finger under the hem of the shirt, tickling slow circles against the taut skin over Sherlock’s hip.

Sherlock swallowed. “Then they’ll be overcooked.”

“Then I’ll eat those and you can make fresh ones.”

“So this is all a ploy to steal my breakfast?”

“Yes,” John answered, spinning him around by the waist as Sherlock laughed, “I’m trying to seduce you for two fried eggs.”

“Shameless,” Sherlock tutted, giggling against John’s mouth as he pulled him down into a kiss, teeth pinching a punishment on his bottom lip for the insubordination, and then John’s presence disappeared entirely, Sherlock’s eyes fluttering open just as the whole world lurched. “John!” he exclaimed, muscled arms clamping down over his hamstrings as he was slung over John’s shoulder, chest bouncing against his back. “Put me down! You’re gonna drop me!”

“Never,” John said, mockingly sincere, and Sherlock tightened his abdomen, trying to lift up enough to glare into the man’s face.

“Aren’t you supposed to beat me over the head with your club first?” he grumbled as John started out the door, stride unhindered by the added weight.

“I think ‘club’ is a bit generous”—he shrugged, Sherlock grabbing fistfuls of his shirt in terror as he wobbled—“but I’m certainly not going to argue.”

Sherlock laughed in spite of himself, jabbing a finger into John’s side. “That’s  _ not _ what I mea- AH!” He hit the bed hard, giggling helplessly as he bounced against the rumpled duvet, John tumbling after him in a tangle of fingers and lips.

Who didn’t love breakfast for lunch?


End file.
